


Asphalt

by Peggy Rosebud (avanc)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 12:16:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16241444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avanc/pseuds/Peggy%20Rosebud
Summary: Till has a kinky fling on tour (2001).





	Asphalt

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the Rammstein Fan Fiction Collector archive ~2003 and presented here with a sense of sadistic whimsy.

Till is rummaging for his suitcase in the cargo bay of the tour bus. He forgot to get a fresh supply of underwear and socks for his overnight bag when he got off the bus, and discovered his stinking dirty laundry bag when he got to his room. He hates having to hunt for the parked buses in strange countries, and is careful not to lose the map the hotel clerk drew for him.

The lot is empty. It's a weekend and he has noticed that certain parts of American cities are wastelands when not seen between the hours of nine to five on weekdays. There are leaves blowing across the parking lot, and the tour buses are the only vehicles on acres of asphalt. He sits in the open bay and has a smoke while he lets his suitcase air out a bit.

The leaves are brown and red and orange and yellow, and they have collected in drifts. They dance in little swirls and eddies across faded asphalt with faint white lines painted on it. There are trees, elms and oaks and maples, lining the sidewalks. Till watches the leaves blow off in a fresh gust, and breathes deep of the fresh salt-sea air. He could even see the bay as he walked down from the hotel. Amazing. Beautiful. He wants to see the ocean while he's here, but he doesn't know where a good spot is, and he'll wander forever and get lost. Till sighs and stuffs clothes in his bag, locks the bus bay, debates taking a nap in his bunk in the silence just to get away. If the bus didn't smell like feet and ass, he might.

A woman has come into the empty lot with her dog. She has an immensely long retractable leash and is throwing a tennis ball. The dog romps in the leaves and leaps up and down in excitement. It is golden and has a plumy tail. Till lounges against the shiny silver side of the bus and has another smoke as his excuse to watch it. The woman is slim and has a nice ass. Till decides to get laid tomorrow after the show. These sorts of women, with cute dogs and nice asses, aren't the sort one can pick up for the night: they have standards. And so does he, really. 

An acre away, across the lot, the dog is getting tired after so many aimless fetches, and they loll in a pile of leaves. It sits awkwardly in the woman's lap, though it's rather too big. Till can see the white flash of her laughing and he chuckles too. Times like these, he wants a dog again. Wants one so badly, to wiggle and leap when he comes in the door, and to curl up on the rug next to him and to let him wrap his arms around it and put his face against its coat. 

Till slumps down to sit hunched against the bus's wheel. He's seen plenty of homeless people huddled in stairwells around here. She probably thinks he's one. There's a bottle of Jack in the cupboard on the bus, and he thinks he should get that and sit here with the quilt from his bunk for a while. He can pretend to be homeless for the afternoon, and just sit in the wind and watch the leaves blow. There are ragged, creased pages in his back pocket, and he makes notes and couplets on them with the pencil stub he always carries.

The dog is sniffing and snorting through the leaves, and wandering about on its long lead. It spies him, wags its tail furiously, and then forgets him when it can come no closer. Eventually, it returns to the woman again and lays down against her leg. He can't help walking all the way over, feeling naked in the flat, empty space, and asking in his ugly English to pat it.

"Please, your dog, may I pet him?"

"Her," smiles the woman. "Go ahead."

Till eases down to his aching knees and makes friends. The dog smells good, it's been washed recently, and its golden coat is thick and soft. It wiggles in his lap and sheds buff colored hair all over his black jacket, and he puts his arms around it to keep it from leaping up and shoving its nose into his eye. He can't help laughing in delight and running his thick fingers through its coat. "She's pretty."

"I got her especially to help me pick up hot men."

Till blinks at her in confusion, realizes it's a joke, and smiles shyly. "Then I get out of here before one comes by." He learns the dog's name, and is grateful that the woman doesn't seem to think less of him for giving it a long, tight hug.

"Would you like to walk to the park with us?" asks the woman. Her voice has no artifice in it. Till tosses his stuff onto the bus and lets her take him where she wants. He never could resist a woman like this. She tells him she doesn't do relationships anymore, but she would like a boyfriend for the day. He nods in startled acquiescence and offers her his arm.

They walk her dog and look at the changing leaves and the dying flowers. She has huge, pale eyes and short-cropped hair: a bit waifish and young for his tastes, but somehow he likes it right now. Till loses his head somewhere by the dry, leaf-clogged fountain and kisses her. It's just a dry-lipped peck, but he feels something swirl through his stomach and leap into his throat to throb there and choke him. He blushes hot and mumbles his apologies and she just smiles a strange, wry sort of smile and says, "It's all right."

Something deflates inside him when they turn back. He wants the wind, and the sharp scent of fallen leaves, and the dog, and the pretty girl to last forever. At least longer. Give him a little more time. The happy bits of life are always too short. He pulls away in frustration and then grabs her and kisses her again, with too much force, and tries to fill his arms with her. All he can say is "please" in a soft whimper against her cheek.

"I don't put out," she says.

Till shakes his head. "I don't understand."

"I won't have sex with you."

He's upset. "I don't- is not- not what I want." Frustration boils up and he clenches his meaty fists in his coat pockets. "Not fucking." The dog winds the leash around his legs and he's glad for the excuse of being trapped. 

She takes Till back to her apartment, and he gives her his coat and stands awkward and hulking in his wife-beater and knit cap. She takes the hat, and he winces as he pulls it off to reveal his mohawk slicked down flat in a stripe against his skull. She reaches up to feel the velvet of a few days growth on the sides and gives him a grin that makes the lump in his throat even bigger. The dog snuffles busily in one of his discarded shoes. 

The place is simple, light: small but with high ceilings that make a tall man feel at ease. Till washes his hands of cigarettes and dog, and sits gingerly on her futon. She has already asked him not to smoke, and he's grateful for the easing of jitters that comes with the strong drink she's mixed him. The woman sits next to him, watches him down his drink in a desperate gulp. "What do you want from me?"

He sweats. "I want-" he puts out his hand and then pulls it back, "I want to touch. Not fuck, touch. Press bodies." He knows there is a word, but he can't remember it, and waves his hands in frustration. She rummages on one of the bookshelves, it has a row of grammars and dictionaries, and hands him a dictionary. He flips for a moment. "Cuddle?"

She bursts out laughing and quickly explains, "I'm not mocking you, not laughing at you. I'm just surprised."

"You think I go home with you to fuck even after you say 'no'?" Till stares at his folded hands and tried not to fidget. He knows he's getting angry because of his embarrassment, but that doesn't make him feel better.

"No," she gives him a frank stare. "I wouldn't have let you in if I thought that. Get up." Till leaps up when she starts to unfold her futon. He tries to help and she doesn't need it and that makes him feel awkward until she smiles and pulls him down on it. He presses himself carefully against her, feeling his knees fitting into the backs of hers, and his chest against her back. He slides his thick arm around her waist and goes still. 

Till is feeling their heartbeats when she says, "Is this what you wanted?"

"Yes," he whispers back. Her hair smells good, and she is so small compared to him that he feels like he could break her. Her bed is comfortable and he wants to sleep. Touring is so exhausting; and the lonely, ugly, impersonal hotel rooms get to him. He nuzzles her neck and sighs into her hair and she puts her hand on his.

When he wakes much later, alone, it is to the dog walking on his back. He pushes it off and sits up, a shy stranger in someone else's apartment. She is reading in the tiny kitchen, and peers round the door frame at the sound of his confused whimper. 

"You're awake."

For a moment, Till can't remember which direction the hotel is in, and he cannot remember any English at all, and fright makes his stomach churn. He clutches at the key card in his back pocket, is grateful it has the hotel name on it. 

The woman watches him, waiting for him to orient himself. "You okay?"

His head is spinning and achy — he needs food and a smoke and more sleep. Till gives her his best puppy eyes and holds out his hand. "Please. Come here?" She obliges, after thinking it over, and he wraps his arms around her waist and pillows his head against her stomach. Her hands come down on his shoulders and rub the muscles and he sighs against her belly. The dog's head is on his thigh, brown eyes fixed on him. This woman has given him happy moments that aren't tainted by past arguments or present tensions, and he wants to hold on to them. He doesn't want to leave.

She fetches his coat and hat.

The dog, excited by activity, galumphs in circles around their legs. One of Till's shoes is toted into the kitchen and abandoned under the table, the other shoved far under the futon by a questing nose jammed into the toe. 

Till rummages for his shoe while the dog is being banned from the room. He is not expecting it, but the assortment of fun devices hidden under her bed makes him catch his breath. "Let me get that for you," comes her anxious voice from behind him. A cane, paddle, crop, gag, and leather cuffs are lined up, all in easy reach for someone at the head of the bed. The soft leather harness he finds makes him weak and hard all at once.

Sitting back on his knees, shoe lamely in hand, he looks up at her. She fiddles with one of her earrings and winces, gives him an unrepentant little smile. Till's thudding heart is threatening to choke him. He debates for a moment how he will approach the situation, and then crawls to her, presses his forehead to the carpet between her feet.

"I didn't give you permission to do that," she says.

Shit. She is offended.

"Stand up," she orders him. "Tell me what you're thinking."

Till obeys. The words won't come, and he knows that what he wants to say isn't going to be covered in any dictionaries. He frowns, "The fetish things. I’m masochist. Words I don't know..." He makes a dive for what he wants and fishes it out. "This." The harness leather smells new and he takes an appreciative sniff.

"'Strap-on harness'," she says.

Till nods eagerly. "I want fucked with this. Want to be fucked."

The woman sighs and gives him a long, evaluating look.

***

She slides a finger in him, slick latex a barely-sensed barrier between them, and Till gasps, throws his head back, and stares wide-eyed at her ceiling. It's invasive and horrible and he's terrified she'll get shit on her fingers and be disgusted with him, or he'll not be able to return the favor enough to reward her for her time. He moans, quavering and needy, and his fright is mostly of embarrassing himself. He wishes he'd paid for this, so he wouldn't have to worry.

Till sinks, eager but careful, onto her hips. He is a big man, a huge man, and she is small and slight. Even now, he's afraid of hurting her and is ashamed of his bulk. She guides him down and smiles to let him know she's comfortable. The dildo feels huge, hard, filling him and stretching him and making shivers run up his spine. What they are doing seems so usual to her, yet he's begged this of dozens of women and been rebuffed. Already, he is fretting about how to make it up to her.

It's so deliciously perfect that he is trembling. Knees pressing dents into her mattress, he dares to make a move to gauge the thing inside. Her hands on his hips guide him in a gentle, swaying first try, and he gasps at the feel of all that silicone moving inside him. "Oh-" Till groans. "Oh!" He pushes down and raises up, easing himself into the idea. "'s good." It's always good and he'll never get enough.

She coaxes him into a rhythm, and he lets his head fall back and rocks his hips gently. The leather of her harness rubs his tender inner thighs with each thrust, and the sensations are overwhelming enough to make him lose his balance. Till is lost up there on high; it's a strange position that he's not used to and there's so little to anchor him. Grasping, clutching blindly, he encounters her proffered hand and she steadies him. He holds it tight and closes his eyes and rides her as she pushes into him. 

It's so good that it's over far too quickly.

Even in the fog of post orgasmic daze, Till knows he shouldn't grab at this woman. But his face nuzzles into the crook of her neck anyway, and his hand rebels against sense and grabs one of her breasts. She stiffens in protest and he wraps his arm around her, palm flat between her back and the mattress, to squeeze her tight. She smells of sweat, and he can feel the tired tremors in her muscles. After a moment, she decides he is still harmless and trails her fingers over his scalp.

She lets him stay the night. Till wants to spoon, but is afraid to ask. She cocoons herself in the blankets and leaves him half the bed for himself. Even a few inches between them hurts him, and when she is asleep, he cuddles as close as he dares. When he wakes, the clock says 5:30AM, and she is gone along with the dog. 

The ugly lump of flesh between his thighs seems useless when he can feel so much pleasure in other places. Till slides one hand back to feel his asshole, marveling at how big a thing can fit into it and please him. With his other hand, he rubs his nipples. His cock is half-hard, trapped between the sheet and his leg, and he sighs in annoyance. It ruins his life: it catches revolting diseases, grows hard at all the wrong moments, demands satisfaction until he gives in and lets it have its way and in the process throws away a relationship or gets a woman pregnant; and to top it off the damned thing is disappointingly small. Sometimes Till hates his cock — the fucking thing is insatiable. Right now he wonders if he dares to jerk off in her bed. 

The sheets smell like lube and latex and her perfume and shampoo. He pushes his face into her bedding and sniffs it as his hand works his cock. She returns, her and the dog bringing wafts of cool, outside air with them. Till is moaning to himself and biting at her pillow as he fingers himself. They watch, heads tilted to the side, as Till starts and yelps in guilty horror. He draws the sheet up to his chest, blushing dark, and fixes his gaze on the bedding.

She laughs, fetches the dildo from the sink where it had been cleaned, and tosses it at him. It lands with a comical thump next to him and he just stares up at her.

"What, you need me to do it?" She laughs merrily and locks the dog in the kitchen even as Till scrambles for the harness and the lube. He is desperate and he admits it to himself, and when she is ready, he lewdly holds his own thighs apart. There's time later to be ashamed of his pathetic cravings.

***

There are scars on Till's chest and belly and arms. Some are blotchy, roundish little burn scars where sparks caught him. His upper back and neck are reddened from the heat of his stage act, and there are scars where blisters became infected. But the lines on his chest and belly, half hidden by hair, are long, ragged and white. They have tea in bed, and she traces them and asks, "Did you make these?"

Till can't meet her eyes, can't speak around the painful lump in his throat. He picks at a dog hair on her quilt and nods. 

"Feels good, doesn't it?" she whispers. Till nods again and looks up to search her eyes for some sign of disgust or pity. He's given up expecting her to react predictably, to react like other women, and it's nice to not try to second-guess her anymore. There are scars on her legs, it turns out, and he follows them with his tongue and trails over them with his fingertips. Despite her refusal of vanilla sex, she likes his sensuality. 

He is watching the clock — 9AM. He wants to stay the night again, but there is the show to think of, and she'll get tired of him soon. Till scoops the woman into his arms, marvelling at how easily she fits and how light she is, and flops over backward. She's held in a little bundle against his chest, and he nuzzles at her. She struggles free far too soon. 

Till can't be faithful. He's utter shit, he treats people like shit, and he wants to keep this woman. He reminds himself that he can't keep her. Because he can't be faithful. _Won't_ be faithful, his guilt reminds him. It's unforgivably arrogant to think she'd want him around anyway. 

He curls under the table at her feet while she sips her coffee and reads a book. The apartment is bright, and the sun coming through the blinds stripes him in yellow. It's nice to sit there, usurping the dog's place, and let her make the decisions about when he will leave and if she will see him again.

***

She punishes Till for the cheating he will do. She beats him until he huddles on the futon and trembles with mindless relief. She has canes and a riding crop, and she uses them until he sobs. His thighs are more tender and sensitive than he thought they were, and she lashes at them until the flesh is purple and swollen. Still, he begs for more and hopes she leaves marks that last for weeks.

When she is done, she pulls him down to rest in her arms. Till is forgiven by her; he has atoned for his sins and the only task left is to forgive himself. That task is impossible. He cries for a long time and is disgusted that he did it in front of her.

The shower stings his skin and makes his bruises throb, and he relishes it. It's too awkward to speak, after all the ways he's exposed himself, so he pulls his clothes on and sits at the table and looks at her a long time in silence. He wants to call, he wants to never see her again, he doesn't want to have to make the decision about it, and she watches it all play across his face.

She sighs, pushes a piece of paper across the table to him. "Write me, if you want. Or call."

Till tries not to look back as he walks down the hall, but he has to. He thought she'd closed her door behind him, but she is watching him go. In the stairwell, he forces himself not to turn back as the door swings shut.


End file.
